Checks and Balances
by The Never Minder
Summary: In a darker world where pokémon don't exist, not even as games, seventeen have terrible and fascinating powers; seventeen can summon monsters...glimpses of their lives. Not necessarily chronological. Latest: ice
1. Normal

Two wide eyes stared back from the mirror, the irises clear and iridescent. Were it not for the faint veins condensed around the pupil his eyes might have looked as white as the pure sclera. The eerie eyes drew upward, and the boy reached his pale fingers to touch the colorless hair displayed in the reflection, straight and fine.

He heard a knock on the door. As the boy got up to answer, his appearance became like watercolors blending together on thin paper, the transition so smooth that the changes couldn't quite catch the eye. Before his hand had even touched the knob his hair was once more the mouse-brown color displayed in all the pictures of him around the house, the color of his father's hair if slightly more dull. It wasn't an eye-catching shade, but nothing about the boy stood out—ever.

He opened the door. "Seth," his mother said warmly.

"Hi, mom." He looked up at her with brown eyes. Brown.

"Time to go," she said gently, and he nodded, grabbing a waiting backpack from its place by the door.

The first day of school.

--

Normal - 5 years


	2. Fire

Diego was a caesarian section.

His mother felt ashamed about it, almost as though it made her a failure. The doctors assured her that many expectant mothers opted for a planned c-section, that it would save time and money and that she wouldn't even have to be fully unconscious.

She didn't know why other people might voluntarily opt for a c-section. She had done it because of the fire.

She never quite knew why she had never told anyone about the terrible burning sensation, worse than anything she'd ever experienced, that had slowly crept into her womb during the last trimester. At first it had been no worse than menstrual cramps, albeit constant, and she'd passed it off as—something. She wanted to but never got around to approaching her loving (if distant) husband about the matter; his job regretfully required a great deal of travel. As the feeling gradually intensified she'd tried researching the phenomenon on her own. None of the books she could find in libraries offered any solution.

Of course, the publication of books had understandably tapered off to a mere trickle in recent years, and many existing ones had been pulled from the shelves anyway.

In the end she was no longer able to handle the pain, and though a bit surprised about the decision, her doctor had no problems with performing the c-section.

When the day came, and despite the fact that her memory of the occasion was a bit fuzzy, through a haze of drugs she had been certain:

When the first incision was made, the burning abruptly _stopped_.

Everything went smoothly, and in a day or two she was able to go home with her family; George was obviously in town for the birth. Smiles all around.

And about a week later, her newborn infant sparked a fever.

Of 300 degrees Fahrenheit.

--

Fire - 216 hours


	3. Flying

It wasn't that Vanessa didn't _try_ to pay attention.

It was just, the teacher had a bird.

The sound of Miss Charlie's observations on the addition of three-digit numbers filled the room, but Vanessa had eyes only for Beak the canary.

The previous year there had been nothing to focus on. She'd tried staring out the dusty windows and revolving her gaze all the way around the classroom, but nothing had been interesting enough to make the time pass quickly. Naturally, Sasha was never near enough to whisper with and there was no one else to talk to.

It wasn't that Vanessa didn't _try_ to make friends.

She wanted lots of friends. She wanted to have a large group of people to be with. Vanessa could not handle being by herself, so in the absence of anyone else, at school she followed Sasha around everywhere.

But she was skittish. The other children tended to lump into groups, and put together they were loud, and mostly bigger than her. Intimidating. She couldn't ever approach them on her own, and she was too quiet, too easily overlook-able to be approached by them.

For the most part. Sasha had noticed. Sasha had approached her.

Sasha wasn't a good friend or a good kid and it wasn't a good friendship, but Vanessa was really too young to realize anything about it save for the occasional disapproving glance from her mother when the girls played.

That was all out of her mind now. Vanessa stared at the bird, fascinated. It began to preen, dragging individual feathers through its own beak, and she wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to fly.

This happened nearly every class.

Flying looked so easy. The birds could do it without any problems, as far as she could tell, and she sometimes thought that maybe if someone could teach her how exactly flying was done…

The bell finally rang for lunch. The children poured out of the room, chattering, and Vanessa fluttered in her chair, alarmed. She didn't leave it. Sasha strode over, grabbing her as roughly as a nine-year-old could be expected to do, and then rolled her eyes at Vanessa's alarmed squawk.

"Let's _go_," the other girl said sullenly.

"I'm staying," whispered Vanessa, her sentence tapering off when she saw that Sasha wasn't interested in explanations. She looked pleadingly to Miss Charlie for help.

"Vanessa," the relatively young woman began carefully, "you've stayed inside to watch Beak nearly every day this week. I think he would be fine without you for one day if you were to go take your normal lunch break."

"Yeah!" cried Sasha, dragging a wounded Vanessa from the room. The girl tore herself from her friend's grasp and stubbornly sat by herself at lunch, picking at her food as always.

By recess she had grudgingly returned to Sasha's side. She always did.

--

That afternoon was her salon appointment. She had two every month, to get her hair re-colored.

"Hold still," the stylist said impatiently. Vanessa tried not to squirm, but she didn't like having not to move for so long, especially with someone touching her head. It didn't feel safe. She wanted to wash her own hair, too.

Sitting nearby, the girl's mother rolled her eyes. This had become an ingrained routine in their lives, though the hairdresser's identity changed every year or so.

Several minutes later it was over. Vanessa reluctantly grabbed her piece of candy from the counter while her mother fished out some cash and chatted absentmindedly.

"…just looks beautiful on her, of course," the stylist said cheerfully. "But tell me, what was your daughter's natural hair color, again?"

Vanessa's mother tensed for an instant before replying. "Blonde."

The younger woman frowned. "Huh. I could have sworn you'd said it was black. Anyway…"

Vanessa watched her mother's paling face for another moment before sighing. Next week there would be a new hairdresser, certainly.

--

She sat on a bench three mornings later, waiting for Sasha. It was cold so she curled in on herself, shaking as much as possible.

Sasha lived close to the school and walked every morning. Vanessa had grown accustomed to meeting her in front of the school. Normally they arrived at the same time but this day Vanessa was early and her friend was late. Very late. The first bell had already rung, but if she went inside now she would still get in trouble _and_ Sasha would be mad.

Three rock pigeons were gathered on the street in front of her. There were no cars.

"Come here," she called to the birds. One was alarmed enough to fly about a foot away but the other two simply looked and returned to picking at things on the pavement.

She focused on their wings, with some of the feathers individually distinguishable but all molded to fit as a whole entity. She wanted to fly. She could fly. Like them. She was like them. She could be like them.

"Come here," she called again, only not quite the same. Her hair was standing on end. No, her hair was floating. She stood on the bench and leapt down gracefully, except instead of landing she simply launched herself forward and didn't reach the ground until she was almost on top of the pigeons, toes not touching the ground for several seconds. Now the birds seemed more interested in her; one flew up and she reached out an arm so it could land. She could be like them.

Sasha's shriek brought her back to reality and Vanessa turned just in time to see her friend's ashen face as she turned to dash into the building.

--

"I don't know," Vanessa said at recess, methodically brushing her hands through her hair. Sasha marched back and forth in front of her, jumping whenever Vanessa made a sudden movement.

"Whaddya mean?" the other girl asked frantically. "You were floating—"

"Flying!"

"Whatever!" she shrieked. "Just, how?"

"I told you, I don't know. I've done the bird thing before, where they land on my hands and stuff, by I never _floated_ before."

Sasha spun around. "Try it again."

"No," Vanessa said, alarmed. She wished she hadn't done it in the first place, even though her small flight had felt wonderful, almost natural, like she had never been born to do anything else. The situation was scary and if it weren't for Sasha's continued shock she would have believed it a dream.

"Try it again!"

--

Flying - 8 years


	4. Poison

He smiled at her with infuriating superiority, and she stared vacantly back, concentrating furiously. She had to get the secretion just right. It had gotten easier with practice, and what a wonderful year it had been when she had initially discovered that she could control the timing and everything else, everything.

"I do hope you'll understand," he said emptily, extending his hand. She looked up, into his black eyes, and was able to mirror his vindictive pleasure as their hands clasped. It lasted only a moment, and as he walked away she could see him wipe his hand on his own expensive jacket. He had thought her hand was sweating.

Five days later the man was dead and she knew it had been the most painful thing he had ever experienced. And she didn't have to serve that detention after all. _That'll teach him to mind his own business_.

--

Poison – 9 years


	5. Grass

"Grow," the child whispered fiercely, both palms flat against the trunk of the small, wilted tree their family had haphazardly planted last year. She pressed harder and the bark dug into her skin. An ant or two crawled onto her fingers; she ignored them.

"Chloe, come inside," her mother called from the back door, voice irate.

The girl concentrated with all her might, trying to block out the sensation of insects against her fingertips, her mother's voice, her weakening legs. "_Grow_," she repeated, a little louder.

"Chloe, I mean it. Hurry up and get in here." No response. "Lunch is ready. Your father's waiting."

Still nothing.

The woman snorted angrily, walking off the wooden patio onto their backyard lawn. Approaching the child, she snapped, "That thing is dead. It didn't get planted right, and nothing's going to happen just because you're standing there."

"Grow," Chloe whispered again, more commandingly. Her whole body was beginning to ache. This was taking far too long; the houseplants had responded almost immediately. Her face shone with sweat. A wayward hair fell from her ponytail to rest over her face, a green strand that irritated her eyes.

Her mother was wrong. The tree was not dead. She could _feel_ it. Her mother didn't know about the houseplants, that they would _all_ be dead if not for Chloe, that Chloe knew what she was doing and ought to be left alone, to finish this, to prove that _the tree was not dead_. She was going to save it.

"Listen to me," the woman said loudly, standing a few steps behind her daughter. No response. "Get in that house right now or I'll—"

Her mother had taken one more step forward, raising her hand, but then before she could bring it down

KIRCHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

the tree _exploded_, shooting up and out with growth. Chloe was knocked backward off her feet as the trunk grew at least a foot in diameter in under half a second. She cradled her bruised wrists subconsciously, watching the branches twisting and forming in awe. Underneath their feet, roots were tumbling forth, absolutely wrecking the grass, and the outward-growing branches that were low to the ground had expanded in every direction, one tearing through the adjacent fence separating their yard from the neighbors'.

Then, as though nothing had happened, the tree stood serenely, its new thick leaves swaying in the breeze. The child and her mother stood watching for at least a full minute.

Then Chloe slowly got to her feet and entered the house.

--

Chloe opened her eyes. It was still dark, not morning yet.

A man she had never seen before was approaching her bed.

She began to scream at least a second before he had seen her eyes widening, but it wasn't enough to wake up her parents in time. He lunged, grabbing her arm roughly and dragging her from the room and out of the house, her continued shrieks not enough to rouse the neighbors

--

Grass - 6 years.


	6. Ice

Bridget woke. As soon as her eyes opened and she determined that her mother was not actively moving in the house, she stripped to her underwear and turned the electric fans on to the maximum, all three in her room. It wasn't cold enough for her liking, but it was better than most of the time and something she didn't get to do often. Still, just sitting on her mattress grew dull after ten minutes or so.

She reluctantly pulled her pajamas back on and walked to the tiny kitchen, pulling open the refrigerator. She was hungry, a little, but quickly found herself distracted by the soothing hum of electricity combined with the chill pouring forth. She rummaged through the various foods, careful to avoid the hated burn that came from touching the tiny light bulb. Unable to find anything she wanted, the girl simply pushed the dispenser on the outside of the refrigerator door for a cube of ice. She licked it, her very light blue eyes flickering to the direction of her mother's room. But there was no sound.

Growing restless, she approached it, intending to wake her mother. She dropped the ice cube to the floor with childish disregard.

The doorknob was cool against her fingers. She turned it, trying to avoid being loud out of habit even though her purpose had been to wake the woman anyway.

Her mother lay in the bed, so Bridget walked over and tentatively reached out to shake her. She expected to feel the unpleasant heat that always accompanied contact with people, and was surprised to find the skin cool and toughened.

After several failed attempts to shake her mother into awakening, the girl gave into minor frustration and weakly hit her small fists onto the mattress.

Then she noticed that her mother's chest wasn't moving.

Feeling vague tremors of fear, the girl began to hold her breath, watching the still figure. The woman's eyes were almost open, white slivers on a graying face. The blond hair was messy and spread out over the pillow.

After sixty seconds or so she had to breathe, and, still not taking her eyes off her mother, the girl took quiet gasps, putting a hand on her own heaving torso as a verification.

Trembling, she stepped away, then backed out of the room, shutting the door behind her. She didn't notice the ice coating the doorknob when she removed her hand. The girl walked slowly down the hall and took the stairs one step at a time with both hands clutching the railing, which froze in her wake.

Once downstairs, the child paused for a moment, gasping almost silently. Two tears ran down her face, freezing before they hit her jaw. After a moment she composed herself, peeling the tiny shards off with detachment. Then walked behind the counter, ignoring the tables, menus, display food and everything else, and went to the back. She lifted the key to the walk-in freezer from its place underneath a fairly inconspicuous floor tile and went inside—she had to stop several times to break the ice crystals forming around the key—and locked the door behind her. She was sitting motionlessly next to the frozen food when the police arrived, following the glittering footsteps her bare feet had left behind.

--

Ice - 6 years


End file.
